Harriet Potter and the Philosopher's Stone
by cityofthefandoms
Summary: How would have Harry's adventures have played out if he were a girl - Harriet Lily Potter? Unoriginal concept. Rating may go up as I write more (but I'm sticking fairly closely to the books). More of an explanation inside. Updated every 2-3 weeks (unless I say otherwise).
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So this will be my first multi-chapter story *awkward applause*  
Unoriginal concept, but oh well. Harry's a girl (Harriet). I'll be sticking quite closely to the books, and using the film a little, but because of that a bit of the story will have to be taken straight from the book (such as the description of certain characters). I will do my best to make up dialogue but sometimes I may have to pinch it from the books. Quite obviously, EVERYTHING goes to J.K. Rowling.  
NOTE: This chapter picks off from halfway through chapter one of the Philosopher's Stone, just after the line "How very wrong he was." In summary, imagine whatever happened in the first half of the first chapter, but change all references to Harry as references to a "she". Then pretend that Petunia doesn't like the name "Harriet" because it's old-fashioned (apparently), but "Dudley" is not. Got all that? Good. Now pick up here from "How very wrong he was."**

_How very wrong he was._

Mr Dursley may have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed in the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed at the stranger.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by his wispy silver hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak which was long enough to sweep the ground as he walked and high-heeled buckled black boots. His blue eyes were light, bright and sparkling behind his half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realise that he had just arrived on a street where everything from his beard to his boots, including his name, was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realise he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring intently at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

He found what he had been looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again – the next street lamp went off. Twelve more times he clicked it, and the twelve remaining street lamps of Privet Drive went out, one by one. He stowed the Putter-Outer away deep in his robes and inspected his handiwork. The street was bathed in darkness. If anyone looked out of their window now, even the beady eyed Mrs Dursley, they would not be able to see anything that was happening on the pavement. He looked around, and on seeing nobody but the cat, started down the street and sat next it on the brick wall outside number four.

"Fancy seeing you here, Minerva."

He turned to smile at the tabby, but instead of the cat, he smiled at a rather severe-looking woman dressed all in emerald green robes and wearing a pointed green hat. She was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had around its eyes and her black hair was pulled back into a neat bun under the brim of her hat.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked him.

"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.

"_All day?_ When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh, yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently, "You'd think they'd be more careful, but _no_ – even the muggles have noticed something's been going on. It was _in their news_." She jerked her head towards the Dursleys' living room. "Flocks of owls… shooting stars… Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent – that was Dedalus Diggle, I tell you. He never did have much sense."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently, "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

"I know that," said McGonagall irritably, "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless; out in the street in broad daylight, not even dressed in muggle clothes, swapping rumours!"

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore, silently willing him to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on: "A fine thing it would be, if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really _has _gone, Albus."

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore, "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a sherbet lemon?

"A _what_?"

"A sherbet lemon. They're a kind of muggle sweet I'm quite fond of."

"Oh, all right then," she sighed, plucking one out of Dumbledore's hand. "As I was saying," she said a few moments later, "even if You-Know-Who _has_ gone –"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person such as yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense – for eleven years I've tried to get people to call him by his name: _Voldemort_," McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore seemed not to have noticed; he was too busy fishing for a sherbet lemon in one of his robe pockets, "It all gets so confusing if we all keep saying 'You-Know-Who'. I've never felt any need to call him that."

"I know _you_ haven't, but you're different," she said, half exasperated and half in admiration, "Everyone knows you're the only one he was ever afraid of."

"'He' who?" he asked teasingly, a twinkle in his eye.

"You-Know – oh, all right then. _Voldemort_." She shuddered.

"You were saying:"

She huffed. "You full well know what I was saying."

"I seem to have forgotten, Minerva dear."

"Fine. _Voldemort_," she said, putting emphasis on the latter word, "was only ever afraid of you. No-one else."

"You flatter me. Voldemort has – _had_ powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too – well – _noble_ to use them."

"You know, it's a good thing it's dark. I haven't blushed this much since Madame Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

She rolled her eyes and said, "The thing is, I was hoping to ask you about the rumours flying about. You what everyone's been saying? About why he's disappeared… and who finally stopped him?"

She held her breath for a moment. She had finally reached the point of discussion that she was most anxious to talk about, the reason she had sat on that stone cold brick wall all day. She turned to face Dumbledore, but he was digging around for a sherbet lemon. _Honestly_, she thought, _how many of those does that man eat_? Sensing that she would have to be the one to start off, she said, "What they're saying, is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow." His head snapped up. "He went to find the Potters. The rumour is that James and Lily Potter are – are – that they're – that they're _dead_," she finished finally.

Dumbledore bowed his head. McGonagall gasped.

"James and Lily… I can't believe it… I didn't _want_ to believe it… Oh, Albus…"

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know… I know…" he said.

McGonagall's voice shook as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill their daughter, Harriet. But – but he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little girl. No one knows why, or _how_, but they're saying that when Voldemort went to kill her, his power _broke_ somehow, and that's why he's gone."

Dumbledore nodded.

"It's – it's _true_?" she asked incredulously, "After all this time, after all he's done, after all the people he's killed, he couldn't kill a little girl? It's amazing. But _how_ in the name of heaven did Harriet survive."

"We can only guess. We may never know."

McGonagall pulled out her lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore sighed heavily as he took out a golden watch from his pocked and flicked it open. It was a most peculiar watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; and little planets moving around the edge. It must've made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he returned it to his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was him who told you I was going to be here."

She nodded, "and I don't suppose you're going to tell me _why_ you're here, are you?"

"I've come to take Harriet to her aunt and uncle – her mother's sister and brother-in-law. They're the only family she has left."

"_What? _You don't mean – you _can't _mean the people who live there?" she cried, jumping up and pointing at number four. "Albus, you _can't_. I've been watching them all day! They're awful people! I saw their son kicking his mother all the way up the street just because he wanted sweets! _Sweets_! Harriet Potter come and live_ here_?!"

"It's the best place for her," said Dumbledore firmly, "Her aunt and uncle will explain everything to her when he's older. I've written everything in a letter."

"A letter?" she said faintly, sitting back down, "Really, Dumbledore? You think you'll be able to explain everything _in a letter_? These people will never – can never understand her! She'll be famous – a legend! Harriet Potter, the girl who lived! I wouldn't be surprised if today was Harriet Potter Day in the future! Every child in the world will know her name!"

"Exactly," Dumbledore said seriously, looking at her over the rim of his half-moon spectacles, "It would be enough to turn any child's head! Famous before she can walk and talk! Famous for something that she can't – and I hope she won't – remember! It would be so much better for her if she grows up, away from all of it, until she's ready to take it."

"Yes – yes, you're right, of course," she said, "But how is she getting here? I don't suppose you have her under that cloak?"

He gave a short laugh. "Oh no," he said, "Hagrid's bringing her."

"You think it's wise," she asked, "to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

"Don't get me wrong – I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place, but he can be… careless. He does tend to – what-was-that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight. They both looked up at the sky as a huge motorbike fell out of the air and landed in front of them.

If the motorbike was huge, it had nothing on the enormous man sitting atop it. He was almost twice the size of a normal human and at least five times as wide. He looked too large to be allowed, and so _wild_ – his head was a tangled mass of black hair and his beard hid most of his face. His hands were the size of dustbin lids and his feet were the size of baby dolphins. In his arms, he held a bundle of baby pink blankets.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, "At last. Where on earth did you get that motorbike from?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore sir, from young Sirius Black," said the giant in a thick, West Country accent

"But of course," Dumbledore said, giving a short laugh, "No problems, were there?" suddenly serious again.

"Oh, no, sir – 'ouse was a wreck, but I got 'er out of it before the muggles figured out what'd happened. Little darling fell asleep just as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Dumbledore and McGonagall approached Hagrid and extracted the bundle from his grasp to allow him to clamber off the bike. Handing the bundle to McGonagall, he rummaged around for the letter and pulled it out. McGonagall peered down into the bundle. Inside was a baby girl, just visible among the blankets swaddling her. Gently brushing the hair out of the child's eyes, she spotted a thin, lightning-shaped scar. She gasped.

"Is that where – " whispered McGonagall, so as not to wake the child in her arms.

"Yes," said Dumbledore, "She'll have that scar forever."

"Oh, Albus, is there _nothing_ you can do?" she begged.

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars _can_ come in useful. Did you know, for example, that I have a scar on my left kneecap that is a _perfect_ map of the London Underground?"

"The London _what_?" she asked in confusion.

"Never mind," he said, "Could I take her? We'd better get this over with."

"Professor Dumbledore, sir," Hagrid asked, "Could I maybe say goodbye to her?"

"Of course," he replied, as McGonagall held the baby girl up to Hagrid.

He bent his great, shaggy head over the child and gave her what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery and wet kiss, for Hagrid had been crying silently for the past few moments.

"There, there," McGonagall patted him awkwardly on the shoulder as she handed the baby to Dumbledore and they walked to the doorstep of number four. As Dumbledore laid her down, Hagrid gave a great howl.

"Shhh!" hissed McGonagall, "You'll wake the muggles!"

"S-s-sorry!" he sobbed, "B-b-but can't stand it. James and Lily d-dead and little Harriet off ter live with m-muggles!"

"Yes, yes, Hagrid. It's all very sad, but _get a grip_ or we'll be found," she replied rather impatiently.

By now, Dumbledore had laid down the letter, and returned to join them on the pavement. For a full minute, the three of them watched the little pink bundle resting on the doorstep. Hagrid's shoulders shook silently, McGonagall allowed the tears to roll down her cheeks and the twinkling light that normally shone from Dumbledore's eyes had gone.

With a great sigh, Dumbledore finally said, "Well… that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeh," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' young Sirius 'is bike back now. G'night, Professor McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore, sir." And with that, he waddled over to the motorbike, kicked it into gear, and soared off into the night.

"I'll be off. Goodnight, Minerva," he said, bowing his head slightly. He turned to go.

"Albus," McGonagall said quickly, catching Dumbledore's arm, "would it be okay if I stayed here for a while – just until dawn? I want to make sure she's all right."

"If you must, but I hardly think you need to. I'm sure she'll be quite fine," he said.

"Please, Albus," she begged.

"All right then," he conceded. Pulling out the Putter Outer, he clicked it once and all fourteen streetlamps came back to light. He glanced over to McGonagall, but in her place sat a cat.

"Minerva," he said, and turned to number four, "and good luck, Harriet Potter." And he disappeared with a _pop!_

The cat sat on the brick wall, keeping watch over the small child, swaddled in pink on the neat doorstep. It sat there for a good six hours, waiting for the sun to rise. As the sky began to lighten, and tinges of pink and white could be seen in the sky, it meowed and became human again.

"Goodbye, and good luck, Harriet," she said, before disappearing as well.

Harriet Potter rolled over in her blankets in her sleep. One small hand closed around the letter, now cold and a little damp from the morning dew. She slept peacefully, not knowing she was special, not knowing she was famous, not knowing she would be woken in a few minutes' time by her aunt's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles; nor that all night and the previous day, people had been meeting in secret all over the country, and raising up their glasses and saying; "To Harriet Potter – the girl who lived!"

**A/N: How was that? I would have skipped straight to Dudley's birthday/attack of the boa constrictor but I really wanted to put in the little Dumbledore/McGonagall exchange, featuring her incompetence in the Muggle world. Don't get me wrong, McGonagall is one of my favourite characters of all time, but I found that entertaining. That and the fact that McGonagall has become slightly protective of Harriet in the motherly sense. McGonagall's attachment to Harriet will become more important later on in the story, and provide a sort of mother-daughter relationship between them (only really for the first year, though.) After the first year, Molly Weasley will become the mother figure, but McGonagall will always be at school for Harriet to talk to.**

**Anyway, I'll update this story every three weeks, but because I want to get into the rest of it I'll post the next two chapters in the next week or so.**


	2. Chapter 2

Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to find their niece on the doorstep, but Privet Drive had hardly changed, if at all. The sun rose on the same tidy front gardens and lit up the brass number four on the Dursleys' front door. It crept into their living room, which was exactly the same had it had been ten years previously. Almost. Only the photographs really showed how much time had passed. Where, ten years ago, there had been many photos of a round, fat child that strongly resembled a beach ball, there were now photos of a still-fat, but older blonde boy riding a bike, eating ice cream, grinning at the camera and on a roundabout at a fair. The room held no sign at all that another child – a girl – lived here too.

But Harriet Potter was still there, asleep for the time being, but not for long. Her Aunt Petunia was awake, and in a few moments it would be her shrill voice which would make the first noise of the day.

**A/N: This one is really short, but only because it's bridging the ten-year gap between the death of Lily and James (*sobs*) and the day of the attack of the boa constrictor (aka Dudley's birthday).  
Note - from the next chapter onwards it's going to be in Harriet's POV. Because I want you guys to see her perspective soon, I'll post it in a second.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Every chapter, unless I say, will be in Harriet's point of view. I've made her personality a bit like mine. I've been told , jokingly, by my friends on several occasions that I'm very - er - "sassy" so Harriet may appear that way aswell. She's still nice and polite and all that, but she's a bit mouthy. That, combined with her running commentary throughout, should be quite entertaining. Especially in partnership with Ron.**

"Up! Get up! Now!"

I woke with a start as Aunt Petunia rapped on the door.

"Up!" she screeched again, and then I heard footsteps leading away towards the kitchen and the clang of a frying pan being put on the hob. I groaned as I rolled over, put my glasses on and checked the time. 8:30. Dudley and Uncle Vernon should be down soon.

Dragging myself up so I was sitting, I rubbed my eyes and tried to remember the dream I'd had last night. It must have been good – there was a flying motorbike and a giant. I was pretty sure I'd had this dream before, though. It seemed too familiar… and too real; more like a memory than a dream.

Aunt was outside the door again.

"Are you up yet?" she demanded.

"Nearly," I yawned.

"Get a move on, then. You're looking after the bacon and eggs. And don't you _dare_ let it burn. Everything needs to be _perfect_ for your cousin's birthday."

I groaned. "As if I care," I muttered.

"What did you say?" she snapped.

Crap. She heard me. "Nothing… nothing…"

She must've walked away, because I heard footsteps leading back down to the kitchen, and they were too light-footed to have belonged to Uncle Vernon.

I flopped back onto my bed. Dudley's birthday – how on earth had I forgotten? He'd only been yapping about it for the last month or so.

I got out of bed and hunted for some socks. An alright-looking pair was rolled up under the bed. Plucking a spider off them, I popped it under an old shoe of mine and squished it. I inspected the underside of the shoe and found bug-juice. Ugh. I don't like spiders **(A/N: I'm scared to death of spiders)** – they give me the creeps – but I was used to them because the cupboard under the stairs was full of them, and that was where I slept.

I was dressed in moments, and on entering the kitchen/living room I noticed the table was more-or-less hidden beneath the abundance of presents for my cousin, Dudley. I snorted. Typical.

Over by the fireplace I saw the racing bike Dudley had been after for ages. Now, _why_, Dudley wanted a racing bike in the first place was a mystery to me; he wasn't the slimmest person around… no; scratch that. He was the fattest person our age and hated exercise. Unless, of course, it involved punching someone. And I was his favourite punch-bag, though he rarely caught me. I didn't look it, but I was pretty fast for my age.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact I'd grown up sleeping in a dark cupboard, but I had always been small and skinny for my age. I often looked smaller than I was, because the only proper clothes I had to wear were Dudley's old ones, and he was four times bigger than me.

I had a thin face, knobbly knees (I looked awful in the shorts I had to wear in PE), black, messy hair that grew all over the place and green eyes. The round glasses I wore were held together with a load of tape from the many times Dudley had punched me in the nose. Chivalry in the line of Dursley had evidently died a long time ago.

I liked my eyes, and my hair, but my absolute favourite thing about the way I looked was a thin scar on my forehead that was shaped like a bolt of lightning. I'd had it as long as I could remember, and when I was younger I'd spend ages coming up with crazy stories as to how I'd got it. The one time I'd asked Aunt, when I was very young – I can't have been more than three – she'd told me I'd gotten it in the car crash the night my parents had died. She'd also asked me not to ask questions.

_Don't ask questions_... that was the first rule for a quiet life with the Dursleys. Obviously I'd learnt that the hard way.

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen and barked, "Comb you hair!" by way of a morning greeting.

See, about every three months, Aunt Petunia would decide I needed a haircut, and out would come her scissors. Ironically, I quite liked the haircuts she would give me. They were never neat, but I liked the way it looked afterwards; all choppy and messy. She was always fairly nice to me whilst doing it, and would always ask me, "Is this all right?" at the end, before reverting back to her regular, snappy self in a second. I think she knew I liked the way she cut my hair. Uncle Vernon never liked my haircuts, though. He would claim they were ridiculous, but Aunt would always argue that it was easier (and cheaper) than taking me to a proper hairdressers, and that she wasn't trained, anyway.

I was on to frying the eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen. He was the spitting image of Uncle Vernon; he had a large pink face, not much neck, small watery blue eyes and blonde hair that sat on his thick, fat head (that in my mind, strongly resembled a beach ball).

Aunt often remarked that he looked like a baby angel. I often thought he looked like a pig in a wig.

I put the plated of egg and bacon on the side bar as Dudley began counting his presents. After a few moments of muttering to himself, he stopped. His face fell.

"Thirty-six," he said, evidently in disbelief, "that's two less than last year."

Spoiled brat.

"Darling," Aunt replied, sickly-sweet, "you haven't counted Auntie Marge's present. See, it's here, under this big one from Mummy and Daddy."

_Mummy and Daddy_? What was he, three? I loved the way Aunt cut my hair, but the rest of the time she was just pathetic and ridiculous. I hated her less than I did Dudley and Uncle Vernon, though.

"Alright, thirty-seven then," he said, going red in the face.

Sensing a tantrum, I wolfed down the rest of my food and plopped it in the sink. The last thing I needed was for Dudley to go on a plate-breaking spree, meaning I'd have to clear it up.

Aunt obviously smelled danger too, because she said quickly, "And we'll buy you _another_ two presents while we're out today? How's that, popkin? _Two _more presents. Is that all right?"

Dudley thought for a moment (yes, the impossible actually _did_ occur)and then said slowly, "So I'll have thirty… thirty…"

Evidently he _was_ three.

"Thirty-nine, sweetums," said Aunt Petunia.

"Oh. All right then," he said.

Uncle Vernon chuckled. "Little tyke wants his money's worth, just like his father." He ruffled his son's hair, who had just begun the lengthy task of unwrapping his presents.

The phone rang and Aunt Petunia went off to get it. After a couple of minutes, she came back, her face sour.

"Bad news, Vernon," she said. I looked up. "Mrs Figg's broken her leg, tripping over one of those bloody cats. She can't take her." She jerked her head and glared at me, but I didn't care.

Mrs Figg was this elderly woman who lived two streets away from us, and was basically my 'babysitter'. Every year on Dudley's birthday, I'd have to go over to her place for the day, while Dudley and a friend went out. I mean, she was nice and all, and she sometimes gave me chocolate cake (though it was always stale), but I hated having to her house. It smelled of old people, cabbage and cats (I thoroughly disliked cats, apart from this one which I seemed to see everywhere during summer) and the décor was awful. Not that it mattered, necessarily, but it gave me another reason not to like going to her place. She always made do chores (though they were never very hard) and look at pictures of all the cats she'd ever owned and she fed me her 'own recipe' of cabbage soup. It was nasty.

Now she couldn't take me, it would be months before her leg healed and I would have to spend the day cooing over Tibbles or Mr Paws.

"Now what?" said Aunt Petunia.

"We could phone Marge," suggested Uncle Vernon.

_NO!_

"Don't be ridiculous, Vernon, she hates the girl."

_Phew_.

"You know… you _could_ just leave me here," I put in. I'd have the TV to myself and I could have a go on Dudley's computer.

"And come back to find the house in ruins?" Uncle Vernon snapped.

It was worth a shot.

"I suppose we could take her to the zoo… and leave her in the car…" she said slowly.

"That car's new! She's not sitting in it alone," cried Uncle Vernon.

Dudley burst into fake tears (albeit quite convincingly).

"I d-don't want h-h-her to c-come. She a-always r-r-ruins ev-ev-_everything_."

No I don't, you bloody twat.

Flinging her arms around him, Aunt Petunia cried, "Dinky Duddydums! Don't cry! Mummy won't let her ruin you special day!" she shot me a pointed glare: _You'd better not mess this up_. Dudley grinned at me maliciously from between his mother's arms.

Just then the doorbell rang.

"Oh good God, they're here!" Aunt Petunia said frantically, releasing her son and patting him on the head. She straightened her clothes and hair, and scuttled towards the door. I ran around, picking up the wrapping paper and stuffing it in the bin as Dudley gave a final sniff for effect, but it soon morphed into a cough as Dudley's best friend, Piers Polkiss, came striding into the room followed by his mother and Aunt.

Piers was a skinny boy with a face like a rat. He wasn't tall, but tall enough, as he was the one who normally held people's arms behind their backs while Dudley hit them.

"Alright, Harriet," he said, winking at me. I rolled my eyes and went to sit in my cupboard, listening to the adults make small talk, and Piers and Dudley chattered about the kid they'd beat up a couple of days before.

Half an hour later, I still couldn't believe my luck when I found myself sitting in the back of the car with Dudley and Piers on the way to the zoo for the first time. My aunt and uncle hadn't been able to come up with a solution, and, after Aunt dressing me in "clothes fit for a girl of your age" (which were actually rather nice), we were getting into the car when Uncle Vernon had pulled me aside.

"I'm warning you," he had said, "I'm warning you now, girl. Any _funny business_ and you'll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas."

"I'm not going to do anything. Honestly," I had protested, but Uncle Vernon didn't believe me. No one ever did.

See, strange things happened around me, and as hard as I tried, the Dursleys (namely uncle Vernon) never understood that it wasn't me making them happen.

For example, one time, after lots of arguing, Aunt Petunia had resorted to forcing me into one of Dudley's revolting old jumpers. The harder she had tried to push it over my head, the smaller it became, until it was so small it could have fitted a three year old easily, but certainly not me. Deciding it had shrunk in the wash, she gave it away to charity, and thankfully I wasn't punished.

Another time, though, Dudley and his gang had been chasing me when, much to my surprise and shock (as anyone else's), there I was, sitting on the roof above the school canteen. The Dursley's had received a very long and angry letter from the Headteacher about me 'climbing school property', but all I'd been trying to do (I yelled at Uncle Vernon through the locked door of my cupboard) was escape Dudley's gang. I'd been trying to jump behind the bins and the wind must have picked me up mid-jump and deposited me atop the canteen.

But today nothing was to go wrong. I was even okay with sitting squashed up against Piers in the back seat, happy to be somewhere that wasn't school, my cupboard or Mrs Figg's cabbage-smelling house.

While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt. He liked to complain about things: people at work, me, the council, me, taxes, me, the bank and me were some of his favourite topics. Today, though, it was motorbikes.

"… roaring along like maniacs," he said as a motorbike overtook them.

"I had a dream about a motorbike," I said, "A giant was flying it."

Uncle Vernon almost crashed the car as he spun around to face me. His moustache wobbled on his now beetroot-coloured face. "GIANTS DON'T EXIST AND MOTORBIKES DON'T FLY!" he yelled.

Piers and Dudley sniggered.

"I _know_ they don't. It was only a dream."

**So what do you think of Harriet? Is she okay? The story picks up here so stuff actually happens. The attack of the boa constrictor will be updated next week :) Please review if you can xxx**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Quick reminder that this chapter is in Harriet's POV  
Also; Disclaimer - EVERYTHING sadly belongs to JK Rowling**

It was a warm, sunny day and the zoo was crawling with families. The Dursleys bought Dudley and Piers large chocolate ice-creams, and then because the smiling lady in the van asked me what I wanted, the bought me a cheap bubble-gum ice lolly. It wasn't half bad, and it turned my tongue blue, which was quite funny.

I had the best few of hours I'd had in a long time. The animals were amazing – I'd never seen any of them in real life, but Piers and Dudley, who had both been to the zoo before, were soon bored. I was wary of walking too close to them, in case they reverted to their favourite hobby of hitting me, or, for Piers, hitting _on_ me. I know – ew. After a show in what was called the amphitheatre (in which the cute guy who worked at the zoo called me up to the front as an 'assistant' and winked at me), we went to the zoo restaurant. Dudley and Piers got a knickerbocker glory each, but when Dudley, on complaining about the size of his, received a new one, I was allowed to finish his first one.

I should've known it was too good to last.

After lunch, we went to the reptile house. It was cold and dark, but the snakes and lizards were all pretty cool. Dudley and Piers wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and man-eating pythons. They quickly located the biggest snake in the place, an enormous boa constrictor that was long enough to have wrapped its body around Uncle Vernon's car twice, and about as thick as Uncle Vernon's arm. However, at the moment it didn't look in the mood; in fact, it was fast asleep.

Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring disdainfully at the sleeping snake.

"Make it move, Dad," he whined, as his father rapped on the glass. The snake gave no sign of waking up.

"Do it again," Dudley said. Uncle Vernon did it again, but there was no response from the reptile.

"This is boring. Come on, Piers." The two boys shuffled away, staring longingly at the snake.

I moved in front of the tank and stared at it intently. I wouldn't have been remotely surprised if it had dies of boredom; its only company was stupid people – did someone say Dudley or Vernon - drumming their fingers on the glass, trying to disturb it all day long.

The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, it raised its head so it was on the same level as mine. _It winked at me_.

I stared. I looked around quickly, to see if anyone, Dudley and Piers in particular, was watching. No one was, so I winked back. Yes, I winked at a snake. Sue me.

The snake jerked its head towards Uncle Vernon, Piers and Dudley, and then raised its eyes to the ceiling, as if to say: _I get that all the time_.

"I know. Must be really annoying," I murmured, leaning down on the rail. I wasn't quite sure the snake could hear me.

It must have been able to, though, because it nodded vigorously.

"Where do you come from anyway?"

The snake pointed its tail at a sign next to the glass. It said: _Boa Constrictor, Brazil_.

"Was it nice there?" I asked.

The snake pointed at the sign again, so I read further: _This particular specimen was bred in the zoo_.

"Oh… S-so you've never seen Brazil?"

As the snake shook its head, I heard Piers shout, "DUDLEY! LOOK AT THE SNAKE!" before running up beside me and pressing his nose and hands up against the glass. Dudley came waddling up and shoved me aside, and I fell onto the concrete. I glared at Dudley, though he wasn't looking at me. I didn't quite see what happened next, but all I knew for sure was that one moment, the glass was there and Piers and Dudley were leaning up against it, and the next, the glass was gone and they'd fallen _over_ the rail and into the water. The snake simply ignored them; it slithered over the rail and onto the floor. But as it passed me, I could've sworn it said, "Thankssss, amiga."

"A-anytime," I replied in shock as the snake slid away and people ran around screaming. It was quite a funny sight, to be honest. At least, until I saw Uncle Vernon glaring at me – if looks could kill, I'd have been a goner.

The keeper of the reptile house was in utter shock.

"But the glass," he kept saying in disbelief, "where did the glass go?"

The zoo director himself made Aunt and Uncle Vernon tea as he apologised over and over. Piers and Dudley, who I'd say were traumatized, were shivering despite the number of blankets wrapped around their shoulders. All the way home, Aunt kept chanting, "It's all right. It's all right," as she stroked Dudley's hair in the back seat, meaning I had to sit up front with Uncle Vernon. You could physically feel the tension.

Uncle Vernon waited until Piers was safely out the house before starting on me. He grabbed me by the hair (which really hurt, might I add) and demanded an explanation.

"I don't know!" I yelled as he yanked on my hair, "I swear I don't know! One minute the glass was there, and then it was gone! It was like magic!"

He shoved me into the cupboard and slammed the door shut. I heard the lock click as he said, "There's no such thing as magic."

**Next chapter should be up in about a week or two. I'm off school for Christmas so that should mean (a) more chances for writing and (b) more new chapters for you guys (*yayy*)**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Yay I finally got around to updating! This note is kinda pointless so you may as well go on to the actual chapter. Enjoy xxx**

I was glad school was over, but there was no escaping Dudley's gang of goons. They visited the house almost every day, to assist Dudley in his favourite past-time: Harriet Hunting.

This was why I spent as much time out of the house and as far away from Privet Drive as possible. I ended up spending lots of time with or around this one cat that followed me around everywhere, every summer since I could remember. Come to think of it, at Christmas and Easter as well. I spent lots of time talking to – or at – it, about anything, really. I promise you, I was _not_ going mad. I followed me around, anyway. I might as well have made use of the company.

Apart from my conversations with the cat, the summer holidays were basically miserable. However, there was still one small ray of hope – when September came around, I would be going to secondary school, and for the first time in my life that would be away from Dudley. He would be going to Uncle Vernon's old school, Smeltings, while I would be off to Stonewalls, the local comprehensive. Dudley thought this was very funny.

"They stuff people's heads down the toilet their first day at Stonewalls," he told me, "Want to come practise?"

"No thanks," I said, "The poor toilet's never had anything as nasty as your head down it – it might be sick, and we don't want that, do we?" Then I ran off before he could work out what I'd said.

About a week into the holidays, Aunt Petunia took Dudley and I to London to buy his new uniform. Smeltings boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers and flat straw hats called 'boaters'. They also carried canes, supposedly used for hitting other boys when the teachers weren't looking. This was apparently good training for later life, though _how_ I couldn't understand.

While we were out, a few people dressed funnily waved at me or shook my hand. When we went into WHSmith's **(A/N: in the UK there's this shop that people normally call ****_Smith's_**** that sells stationary and books and other things like that) **a tiny old man in a purple top hat approached me and shook my hand. After demanding whether I knew the man, Aunt hurried us both out of the shop without buying anything. "We'll go somewhere else," she had muttered.

Things like that happened to me quite a lot, actually. It was if they all knew me, or my name at least. One time, a wild-looking old woman waved at me on a bus, and another time, just outside school, a bald man actually bowed to me, much to the confusion of mine and everyone else's. This other time, a little boy ran up to me and said, "Hi, Harriet," and then ran back to his parents, who had both been watching me, more discreetly than their son. Weird.

Anyway, that evening, as Dudley paraded around the living room in his new uniform, Uncle Vernon claimed how it was the proudest moment of his life, and Aunt Petunia burst into tears again (she'd cried at the till of the uniform shop earlier) and said how she couldn't believe how her – and I quote – "Ickle Dudleykins" looked so handsome and was all grown up. I didn't trust myself to speak. I thought two of my ribs had already cracked from trying not to laugh, though I murmured my "approval".

For _my_ uniform, Aunt Petunia had "branched out" and had bought it from a charity shop. It didn't fit very well – it was quite big – but I wasn't fussed. At least it wasn't four times bigger than me, as my uniform in previous years had been. I was allowed a skirt for school for the first time, and I walked into the living room one morning to find her stitching up the waistline so it fitted me better, which I thought was very nice of her. Uncle Vernon walked in a few minutes later, and moaned a bit about how much they had spent on me this summer (which was about three times what they normally did, and even then it was all on uniform). Dudley came down after that, carrying his Smeltings cane, which he carried around everywhere. He banged it down on the table, just as the letter box clicked.

"Get the post, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon, without looking up from his paper.

"Make Harriet get it."

"Get the post, Harriet."

"Make Dudley get it."

"Poke Harriet with your stick, Dudley."

"Fine!" I said, getting up and dodging Dudley's stick, "How many times do I have to tell you it's Harri, anyway?" I called as I walked to the front door.

"How many times do I have to tell you nobody cares?" shouted Dudley, and then laughed at his own joke.

Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister, Marge; a brown envelope that looked like a bill; and, and _a letter for me_.

I picked it up and stared at it. No one had _ever_ written me a letter before. And yet, in my hands there was a letter addressed so clearly there could be no mistake. **(A/N: This was supposed to be in fancy, curly font but this site only has one font, ergo italics will have to do 0.0)**

_Miss H. Potter_

_The Cupboard under the Stairs_

_4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging_

_Surrey_

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of creamy yellow parchment, and the address was written in a beautiful shade of emerald green ink. There was no stamp, though when I turned the letter over, there was a red wax seal that bared a coat of arms: a lion, a snake, an eagle and a badger surrounded a large 'H'.

"What's taking you so long?" I heard Dudley say as he walked towards me. I had to hide the letter. I had to –

"What's that you've got there? Pass it over," he said, snatching it out of my hand.

There goes that.

He read the words a couple of times, his face a picture of disbelief. Then he yelled out, "Mum! Dad! Harriet's got a letter!"

He ran back to the living room and passed his father the letter.

"That's mine!" I said, running back into the room.

"Who'd be writing to you?" sneered Uncle Vernon, turning the letter over. He saw the writing, because a second later he was red, then green and then the grey-ish white of old porridge. Ick.

"P-P-Petunia!" he gasped, his hand shaking as he handed the letter to her. She took it curiously, removing the letter. She scanned the first line, before looking up her face white.

"Oh no. Oh no. I hoped she wasn't… that she wasn't…" she trailed off, her face white.

"That I wasn't _what_?" I piped up.

Dudley, meanwhile, was attempting to snatch the letter out of his mother's hand, but she held it too high up for him to reach. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia stared at each other for a moment, as if they'd forgotten that Dudley and I were still in the room.

"Give me my letter," I said.

They didn't respond.

"I said: Give me my letter," I repeated, raising my voice. This seemed to snap them out of whatever they had going on.

"Right, the two of you, out!" shouted Uncle Vernon. He grabbed Dudley by his collar, and shoved me into the hall, slamming the living room door behind us. Dudley and I glared at each other for a moment, before he floored me and therefore got the right to peek through the keyhole. I was forced to lie down on the floor if I wanted to listen at all.

"Vernon," Aunt was saying, her voice shaking, "look at the address – how could they know where she sleeps? You don't think they're watching us, do you?"

"Watching – spying – might be following us," Uncle Vernon muttered.

"But what should we do? I don't want to send her. Do we write back, tell them we don't want her to go?"

"No. No, we'll ignore it. If they don't get a response… yes, that's best. We won't do anything."

"But –"

"I'm not having one in the house, Petunia. Didn't we swear when we took her in that we'd stamp out all that dangerous nonsense?"

Wait, _what_?

**'Ergo' means 'therefore' for those of you who don't know. My thing with Aunt Petunia is that she has a soft spot for Harriet because she reminds her so much of growing up with Lily, and that she was always hoping Harriet's magical incidents were completely ordinary and that Harriet wasn't a witch. So basically she was holding her breath for the last ten years until Harriet got her letter. If she****_ did_**** get her letter, she would distance herself from her niece, whereas if Harriet ****_didn't _****get her letter she would treat her better, as she's 'normal' and non-magical.**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Sorry it took me so long to update - blame school and procrastination. I don't actually have anything to say now so um... bye...  
Everything obviously belongs to JK Rowling :)**

That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did something he'd _never_ done before: he visited me in my cupboard.

"Where's my letter?" I demanded the second he squeezed his arse through the door, "Who's writing to me?"

"No one. It was addressed to you by mistake. I've burned it."

"_Burned it_? It was mine! It had my cupboard on it!" I protested, raising my voice.

"SILENCE!" he yelled, and a couple of spiders fell from the ceiling. I shuddered as they scuttled under the bed. He took a few breaths and twisted his face into a sort-of smile. It looked painful.

"Er – yes, about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking –"

"You mean Aunt, not _you_ and Aunt."

"Yes – anyway – She's been thinking that you're getting a bit big for this cupboard. Particularly a – er – a girl of your age. She thinks it would be better if you moved into Dudley's second bedroom."

I couldn't keep the smile off my face. "Really?" I asked, but then something hit me. The smile slid off my face as I said, "Wait, why? Why now?"

"Don't ask questions!" he snapped, "Take this stuff upstairs now!"

The Dursleys' house had four bedrooms: one belonged to Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia; one was for guests (usually Uncle Vernon's sister, Marge [I hated her]); one was for Dudley and the last was where Dudley kept all his old toys and things that wouldn't fit in his bedroom. It only took one trip to move all the stuff I owned upstairs to my new room. I flopped down on the bed, and sighed, looking at all the old and broken toys.

From downstairs came the sound of Dudley bawling: "I don't _want_ her there! I _need_ that room! _She_ doesn't! Make her get out!"

The day before, I'd have given anything to have an actual room to myself. At that moment, I'd rather have been back in the cupboard with the letter than in the bedroom without it.

.

The next morning at breakfast, everyone was quiet. Really quiet. Dudley was in shock. He'd screamed, cried, hit his father with his Smeltings stick, been sick on purpose, thrown his tortoise through the greenhouse roof and even kicked mother and he _still_ didn't have his second room back.

The letter box clicked and, trying to be nice to me, Uncle Vernon made Dudley go and get it. He banged his stick on the table, but his father glared at him and he stomped off. A moment later he shouted, "There's another one! _Miss H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive_ –"

With a cry, Aunt and Uncle Vernon leapt up from their seats and dashed to the hallway. I followed a second later, after recovering from the shock of actually seeing Uncle Vernon move with anything more than a snail's pace.

I was too late, though. Aunt Petunia already had the letter in hand and Uncle Vernon was trying to stop Dudley making a grab for it.

Uncle Vernon noticed me and shoved Dudley up the stairs. "Go on, go to your room, the both of you," he said, gasping for air.

I didn't move.

"I said, _move_," he repeated, glaring at me. I eyed the letter as I walked up the stairs.

I went round and round in circles in my new room. Whoever had sent the letter had definitely meant it for me, and they had known I'd moved out of the cupboard. They also knew I'd not received the first letter. Surely that meant they'd try again. I was determined not to lose this third letter. I had a plan. I just hoped it worked.

**Sorry it's so short. This is basically a filler. I'll provide you with a chunkier chapter when I get around to it... which may not be for a month so I apologise in advance if nothing's up until the end of February or whatever. In the meantime, please review if you can xxx**


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